


there now, steady love

by caelestys



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:50:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3171922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caelestys/pseuds/caelestys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve comes home, always, to Bucky.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Bucky’s clearly been climbing the walls for days, because he’s sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor, dressed in Steve’s sweat pants and a soft grey henley, and surrounded by what looks like every book in their apartment.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	there now, steady love

By the time Steve gets home from his super top-secret assignment somewhere in the wilds of Argentina, Bucky’s clearly been climbing the walls for days, because he’s sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor, dressed in Steve’s sweat pants and a soft grey henley, and surrounded by what looks like every book in their apartment.

Steve likes his books arranged by size or color, and Bucky likes them arranged in alphabetical order, and Steve always comes home from assignments and weeks away to find their books carefully reordered and their furniture in new and increasingly creative configurations. Bucky tends to get fidgety and stir crazy when he's bored and there's nothing else to do and Steve isn't home to distract him.

The smell of freshly made bolognaise sauce and basil leaves floats through from the kitchen. Bucky’s always been the better cook out of the two of them, and Steve takes a breath, letting it fill his lungs. There's something soft and sweet playing from the speakers, and Bucky's low humming murmur sounds like warm fireplaces and crumpled bedsheets. The tension drains out of Steve’s stiff back and sore muscles. He kicks off his boots with a thump, and Bucky doesn’t look up, but fidgets and flushes, almost like he’s embarrassed to be caught out like this. Steve has never loved this beautiful, blushing man as much as he does in this second, and he drops his shield and duffle bag on the floor and grins at Bucky.

“I leave you alone for a week and come home to an apartment that looks like a tornado’s blown through it,” he says.

“There is no sense of order to your dumb organisation,” Bucky says, wrinkling his nose, but allows Steve to grab his hand and pull him up. “Obviously I had to go through and fix everything.”

“Every time I’m not around, you go and rearrange everything and I stub my toe going to get a glass of water in the middle of the night,” Steve says, without heat, trying to school his grin into some modicum of sternness.

“There’s too much stuff in this damn apartment, anyway,” Bucky complains, but he draws Steve in and pulls him close, his hands sliding over Steve's hips, and Steve goes without protest. He presses his mouth, dry and soft, to the exposed skin of Bucky's neck, and melts into him, letting the hard work and tension from the last week seep out of him. Bucky’s warm and smells like clean soap and apple shampoo, and a hint of rich bolognaise sauce from where he’s been hovering over the stove, no doubt inspecting his sauce for the slightest hint of imperfection.

It’s been a long week of strategic meetings and briefings and near-death situations and arguing with everyone on the damn team about his ability to do his job, and Steve’s got bruises everywhere. He’s so mentally and physically exhausted he’s shaking, and all he’s wanted for the entire week is just to come home and feel safe and warm again. All he’s wanted to do is to come home and lie on the soft, navy blue couch that he and Bucky picked out and let Bucky give him a head massage while he falls asleep to a movie.

He exhales a soft, wavering breath against Bucky’s cheek, feeling his heart beat finally, finally return to resting rate. Bucky’s hands are big and solid on the small of Steve's back, his thumbs stroking the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

Steve’s taller than Bucky is, just barely, but Bucky always feels bigger, stronger; always feels like safe harbours. Steve kisses the corner of Bucky's lips, and when that’s not enough, he kisses him again, deeper, feeling the full flush of his lower lip against his mouth. Bucky opens up willingly, like he always does, easy and soft with familiarity. “Hey,” Steve murmurs after a moment.

Bucky pulls back and tucks his face into Steve’s neck, and Steve feels more than hears his murmured _'Missed you'_ against the hollow of his throat. He slips his fingers into the hollows behind Bucky’s ears, along the sharp angle of his jawline, retracing the geography of a land he knows so well.

“Ray LaMontagne, huh?” Steve says, stroking the nape of Bucky’s neck, tangling his fingers in the soft strands that have escaped from Bucky’s haphazard bun.

“Sam came over and made me listen to him,” Bucky says with halfhearted indignation.

“He’s got a whole list of things he wants me to listen to,” Steve says.

“He has really bad music taste,” Bucky says, but makes no effort to try and change the song. “And he made me eat vegetables.”

Steve has to muffle his laughter into the top of Bucky’s head, and Bucky pulls back to narrow his eyes at him.

They sway together like that; not dancing, because for all that they are in possession of some modicum of rhythm and a sense of physical co-ordination, Steve likes this more, holding Bucky close and letting the music and warmth fold over him like tidal waves. In all rights, they should look like a pair of idiots, shuffling across the hardwood floor like this.

But it's just him and Bucky, swaying in a small circle, the music lilting and quiet in the background of their warm living room. It's just Bucky's nose brushing against his cheek and his soft, off-tune humming in Steve's ear.

“There's dinner on the stove,” Bucky whispers, his thumbs tracing back-and-forth along the skin of Steve's hips, but he doesn’t pull away, and Steve wraps his arms around him and kisses him instead, and again for good measure.

“Later,” Steve says, and keeps swaying to the rhythm of their breathing even when the track ends and the silence between songs fills the room.

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky breathes against his temple, and they stay like that, and Steve wonders what he ever did to deserve this.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually quite enjoy Ray LaMontagne. Bucky's just being a little shit and can't admit that he likes him too. He's listening to Let It Be Me, if you're curious.
> 
> I'm [caelestys](http://caelestys.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come say hi!


End file.
